Blogs I Follow

Month: May 2016

I first “met”Jodie Roberts on Facebook as “Geranium Cat”; I loved the name and she was kind to the young beginner I was then. I discovered later that she was deeply committed to the life of her family, her region, her job, writing, reading, reviewing books, blogging, belonging to various orgnisations , her pets – cats and dogs – and “her girls” – her hens!

I feel very happy that she has reciprocated friendship with me. She has even been so confident in some of my capacities that she has allowed me to help her in one of her functions, concerning literature. Can you imagine a French girl working for a British organisation, under the wing of a British lady, about British literature? Well, Jodie made it!

For the occasion of “a poem a day”, she has chosen the following broadcast of Anthony Hopkins saying the famous villanelle “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas.

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Diane Reynolds is an award-winning journalist whose work has appeared in The Washington Post, The Baltimore Sun, and Publishers Weekly among other publications. She teaches literature and writing at the university level and also holds an MDiv from Earlham School of Religion. Her book, “The Doubled Life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer” has been released last month.

I asked Diane if she might consider participating in “One poem a day: readers turned bloggers”. She accepted and gave me two suggestions: one is Johnson’s Creation (https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/creation). The other is a poem she wrote after cutting and arranging wild irises into a jug or pitcher. Diane also gave photos and ¨painting (irises by Van Gogh), underlining that they might illustrate both poems.

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I hope readers and readers-bloggers will not be angry with me if I choose a poem today with illustrations, and generally take back the helm of these “Sketches and Vignettes”.

There are still several contributors and contributions to come: I am both surprised by and happy of their numbers. They will be back tomorrow but today is a special day in France and at The Little Family’s. The last Sunday in May is Mother’s (or Mothering) Day. And The Girls and I wish to send our flowers to Mothers who are no more.

Tastes have always been simple: roses. But not your elaborate roses to be seen in flower shows. No. The flowers of brambles and blackberries, eglantines, briar roses, slightly more sophisticated climbing roses.

Silhouettes in the afternoon, bended, pushing back a lock of hair escaped from the bun, wet and curling tendrils in the neck, back of a gloved hand on forehead, slight squint against the light and the sun when straightening up from a corner in the shade, a sigh, a straw hat sliding crazily.

Silhouettes in the morning, wicker baskets on arm, secateurs in the other hand, choosing the flower, the length of the stem, thinking about colour scheme, height of vases, width of flower dishes, lifting a face towards the early sun before the coming of the heat, dew on the grass and in the paths.

Silhouettes in the falling night, half lost, half indistinct, caressing the climbing roses while listening to the chatter of sister, husband, daughter, son, nephew, vaguely smiling surely, blue time of the dying evening, trailing with them a light but heading scent.

Then, home. Windows wide open over the June night. Books taken down from the shelves and discussions under the gentle but always professorial rule of Grand-Father, about old botanical plates. Waves of warm wind and white gauze-like curtains billowing as veils of a ship ready to leave. Last cup of tea. “No, not for me, thank you. I would prefer a lime infusion, or a lavender one. Sleep eludes me and I need to feel calm.” Nod. Smile.

Fading silhouettes. Faded silhouettes. There shall be no involuntarily brushing or caress anymore. There will be no kiss, no look, no smile, no laugh anymore. There shall be imagined silhouettes guessed in the shimmering light or the gathering dusk, by the corner of the eye. There shall be the illusion of a scent, of a gesture against the cheek, of a move, of a warmth around the shoulders..

Only silhouettes.

Do you remember these days in Arles? The end of August under a biting sun and more biting bugs? Do you remember the woman who was selling essential oils of lavender and lemon grass, geranium as well, against mosquitoes and bugs? And the long way among the sarcophagi towards Saint-Honorat church, with the trees that had not changed much since the time of Paul and Vincent? And the voice. The voice that was saying the words of the poem, slowly, as we were walking slowly. Sowly. Softly.

Federica invites us to come into her world today, as Federica Galetto with her poem that she has translated from Italian into English, and as Federica Nightingale with the digital collage that introduces the text.

More at the end of the post.

I am like a stone under your tongue

I am the bride’s veil

and the drop of salt into an ocean

I am an empty jug and the lost water

your arm and your wrist in a land of sounds

I am the hole you have filled

and the coat that you need

marble

wool

gold and soul

I am the descent you walk right through

And the desert you’ll obey

I am everything

And now I am gone

(ghost in your mind)

(I am)

§

Io sono come pietra sotto la tua lingua

Io sono il velo della sposa

E la goccia di sale in un oceano

Io sono una brocca vuota e l’acqua persa

Il tuo braccio e il tuo polso in una terra di suoni

Io sono il buco che hai riempito

e il cappotto di cui hai bisogno

Marmo

Lana

Oro e anima

Io sono la discesa nella quale ti addentri

e il deserto a cui ubbidisci

Io sono tutto

E ora me ne sono andata

(spettro nella tua mente)

(Io sono)

*

Testi di Federica Galetto

Federica Galetto is a contemporary Italian poet, writer, and artist who has already published part of her work. As an artist, she makes digital collages under the name of Federica Nightingale. She also uses photos as medium for her art. This is the link to her blog (at the page she gives me the authorization to cite today):

“La Poesia va diffusa. I mezzi che si utilizzano per farlo non sono importanti, ma importante è che cresca una coscienza poetica dalle radici umane al Cielo. Allora, come diceva un grande giardiniere inglese di nome Geoff Hamilton : “Il Cielo è il limite.” (“Poetry shoud be spread. The means that are used to make it are not important. What is important is that a poetical conscience be born from the human roots up to the Heavens. Then, as a great British gardener, named Geoff Hamilton, used to say: ‘Sky is the limit'”).

(All work by Federica Galetto / Federica Nightingale protected by the laws of copyright). Hazardous translation of her words is mine and she may well correct me!

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Phillip invites us to discover or re-discover the apparent simplicity and clarity of his favourite poet Robert Frost. Silence is best (although this reminds me of Schubert) but there is a lot to think.

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sounds the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Illustration by Eric Ravilious

Phillip has no blog but works a lot on Facebook on his page but also on several groups, artistic, historic, about women and their history, about photography. He is well-known and sows joy and pleasure wherever he goes. Ah! One last word: he is a great cat lover and his photos of his favourite friends are always here to comfort his human friends.

Phillip has helped me through difficult patches with a quote, a painting, a little something I have found on my Facebook page when I opened it. I know he does the same with all his friends but will almost grumble if mentioned…

Yesterday, Olga proposed to read the 130th sonnet by Shakespeare, and, mainly, to listen to it read by Alan Rickman. Today, poetry is shown as a part of the universal as Kaggsy(who is wel known by her blog

One Russian lady, suggesting a British poet, and one British Lady, suggesting a Russian then USSR “avant-garde poet”.

And each choosing one’s vision of a painting that might illustrate this poem.

Kaggsy says: “I love this poem – short, effective and evocative.”

Echo

The roads to the past have long been closed and what is the past to me now?What is there? Bloody slabs,or a bricked up door,or an echo that still could not keep quiet, although I ask so…The same thing happened with the echoas with what I carry in my heart

Anna Aharmatova

1960

(translated by Richard McKane)

Olga gives us the original and agrees that that the translation is very close to it, while being beautiful on its own.

Эхо

В прошлое давно пути закрыты,

И на что мне прошлое теперь?

Что там? — окровавленные плиты,

Или замурованная дверь,

Или эхо, что еще не может

Замолчать, хотя я так прошу…

С этим эхом приключилось то же,

Что и с тем, что в сердце я ношу.

1960

This is the painting with which Kaggsy would see as illustration of “Echo”

“Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge” (by El Lissitzky-1919)

And it is Olga‘s suggestion

Alexandr Shevchenko (“Radiant composition”, 1914)

In fact, Olga comments ” I think about the so-called “radiant painting” – the abstract way of painting which was “invented” at the beginning of the XX century (M.Larionov, N. Goncharova etc.) Although the poem Echo was written in 1960 (“ottepel” in the soviet history) this way of painting illustrates very well the thoughts of Akhmatova.”

***

Thank you to both ladies for their collaboration and their look on painting art as far as this poem is concerned!

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When, on a whim, I thought about “a poem a day” by readers and not by bloggers, I thought, it might be read by a few persons and fewer would send me send something. I had already prepared some of my favourite poems to fill in the gaps!

And you have sent me ideas, actual poems, poems that are said by great voices, poems and paintings to illustrate them, poems and music, poems from your countries translated into English, poems from other countries you love as well… Bloggers do the same. We may end the week…

In fact, if you agree, we might turn it into a poem a week, after this one. And I shall go on linking blog and FB page because you do not all belong to the two media.

Blogger friends, it all started on Facebook and went on to the blog. I have contacted a few of yours. But I have not been able to reach each of you personally. Will you excuse me? If you do, please, I would be very happy to have you contribute. There is no prize, no give away, nothing, just a link to your blog. There is only poetry to share. There are poets among you as well… And you certainly like at least ONE poem?